


a grey day and good times

by yonderdarling



Series: Doctor/Missy Oneshots [11]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Past Relationship(s), Sharing a Bed, mushy dreck, scones deep chats and bathing together wow what an original concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 06:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12576044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderdarling/pseuds/yonderdarling
Summary: It's been a hard day, and it's been a long week, and an eternity since any progress. And so, the Doctor and Missy sit down to talk about the past.





	a grey day and good times

**Author's Note:**

> This is mushy dross, but I wanted to write it, and I did, and it was clogging up my WIPs folder. Enjoy!

It's been a hard day, and it's been a long week, and an eternity since any progress. And so, the Doctor sends Nardole away, and he takes down the walls of the containment field, and he makes a pot of tea while Missy settles in an armchair, silhouetted with fake grey light.

"Biscuits?"

"I made scones," she says, gesturing vaguely.

"I should have gotten you that oven sooner," the Doctor says, arranging them carelessly on a plate. "You're a good cook. You were always good at chemistry."

Smiling, Missy slips out of the chair and retrieves the scones and jam and cream while the Doctor brings over the tea things on a tray.

"Shall we converse, as old friends?" Missy asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

"If you'd like to."

"I would. I would like to," says Missy. "Could you pour?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

Silence reigns, until the Doctor pours the tea and steam curls between them. Missy sniffs, and makes a curious noise. She tips her head.

"I got you a new blend," he says. "Lady Grey. It's lighter."

"Okay."

Sugar. Milk. Stir. Missy takes her cup and inhales the scent, smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She clicks her teeth together.

"It is," she says. "Could you make me a scone, please? You know how I like it."

She hasn't asked him to indulge her in some petty task for over a week, so the Doctor does so with a nod. He passes the scone over to her, smearing cream on his fingers, and he licks them when she takes the pastry.

"Will you have some?"

"Of course, just serving you first."

The scones aren't bad, and the jam is perfectly balanced between sweet and tart. He got it off one of the nice old cleaning ladies who come in after hours. Usually they're up for a chat, even if he's not. The Doctor nods, chewing. He glances around the Vault, sees the rumpled, unmade bed, the books scattered on the floor, open and closed at random.

"Got a lot on your mind?" he asks, trying for casual. Missy fixes him with a look - clearly he failed. "Will you tell me?"

"Yes."

Missy finishes her first scone, takes another. She eats it dry, and so as she chews, the Doctor makes up another one for her, cream, jam. Missy nibbles at the edge.

"How long has it been since you ate?"

"A few days." Then, "Please don't, make me eat soup, or something, I just haven't felt like being mothered. I'm not an invalid."

The Doctor sits back down. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure I'm not an invalid."

"You know what I mean. Please, be my friend for an hour instead of my jailer and counsellor in one penguin-shaped package."

The Doctor stares at Missy, who keeps a straight face, cream smeared by her mouth. He breaks first, and laughs, and she chuckles too. The Doctor passes her his handkerchief, taps the corner of his own mouth. Missy tidies herself up, hands the cloth back.

"Okay," he says. "Okay?"

"Right." Missy crosses her legs, runs her free, scone-less hand through her tangled hair. "Doctor. Answer honestly. What year is it?"

"1973."

"Really?"

"Would I wear an orange and brown tie willingly? In this body, I mean?"

"Well," Missy moves her head from side to side. "Yeah, you got me."

"Good to hear. It's autumn outside, drizzly, and the sky is sort of grey-blue. Been like that all week. And a terrible cold wind, gets right down your collar and through the gaps in your shirt." He looks around for inspiration. "Lot more women on campus too, which is nice. We're seeing second-wave feminism in action."

"You're seeing it."

"Sorry." The Doctor taps his fingers against his lips. "Missy - is there something specific you're thinking about?"

Missy runs her fingers across her mouth; her nailpolish is chipped. She makes a noise in the affirmative.

Her hand drops to her stomach, and she leaves cream on her lapel, and doesn't seem to notice. She does however, see his expression. "I'm okay, Doctor, but that's why. I've been quiet."

The Doctor's palms begin to sweat as he cups his tea. "Why?"

A shrug, and a shake of the head. "With nothing outward to occupy it, the mind turns inward."

"Why?"

"Socrates called, he wants his method back," Missy says. She turns her head, meets his eyes properly. "Doctor. You wanted me to think about my past. Let me think about the good times. So I think about her."

"You think about her a lot?"

"No, I save - " Missy taps her temple. "I save her for when it's quiet, and I'm quiet, and it's nice and peaceful." She purses her lips. "My baby," she says, and her voice wavers a little. "I don't want her tainted, or associated with. Anything other than what she was."

"I'm happy for you, I really am," the Doctor says. "Just surprised. You've never - you never. I mean," he touches the top button of his shirt, below his throat. "You had your brooch."

MIssy inclines her head and takes a long sip of tea. "This is a nice blend. Good for a cold day."

"It is, isn't it. Why did you bring that brooch back?"

Missy shrugs. "It worked, it fitted. I loved that brooch."

He nods again. He tops up her tea, hands her another scone. Missy puts it on her plate, dusts her fingers off.

"You know, just - thinking. Good times," Missy smiled. "We had that mobile made of mirrors hanging in her room, and she would watch those lights for hours, the reflections onto the walls, from the suns, the moons. She thought that Kasterborous had come down to visit." She takes another sip of tea. "And I did not dissuade her of that idea. Neither did you, naughty."

"How long has it been since you slept?"

"A long time." Missy breathes out, bites one of her fingernails. "She would go into your study and undo your shoes laces and you'd be so wrapped up in writing you wouldn't notice."

The Doctor puts his tea down, rests his elbow on the arm of his chair. Watches her remember.

"And then you'd realise, and get up and pretend to fall over, until she came on over and - " Missy jabs at the air. "Poke you in the ear. It was all fun and games until that day she got you in the eye."

He doesn't remember. The Doctor laughs, regardless.

"Is it good, to be able to talk about this?" Missy asks him.

"I think so," says the Doctor. "It's nice."

"It is."

Missy finishes her tea, rests her hands, fingers interlaced on her stomach and gazes out at the grey-lit window. The Doctor studies her hands as he finishes his own tea.

"Another cup?"

"No thanks."

"Would you like me to paint your nails?"

Missy looks at her hands, like she's seeing them for the first time. "Oh? Oh, no thank you. Tomorrow, perhaps, if I'm allowed."

"I hope you will be."

"I think I'd like to go to bed," says Missy quietly. "Doctor?"

"Sure, I'll get out of your hair," he says, standing, loading up the tea-tray.

"No, Doctor, no," she says, catching his wrists. "Would you stay?"

"Would you like me to?"

Her eyes dart. "I'm feeling - fragile. I need a shower."

He straightens up, and takes her hands over the table. "I thought you were feeling nice."

"Yes, but it's a fragile nice. It's - " Missy squeezes his fingers. "It's a teacup in a storm."

"It's meant to be a storm in a teacup."

"Exactly. I want to be clean."

She helps him wash the dishes, and stow the remaining scones and the cream, and the jam, put the tray back in the cupboard.

"Do you want me to help you wash your hair?"

Sometimes it's a yes, sometimes it's a no. Missy nods, and he trails after her to the bathroom. Usually when he helps her in the bath or the shower (she can't be left alone in water) he stays clothed, rolls up his sleeves and ends up with a soaked shirtfront leaning into the cubicle or from being splashed by Missy.

This time, as Missy strips off and bundles her clothes into the washing basket, the Doctor peels off his jacket and shirt, shoes, socks, trousers and pants. He starts the shower up and gets it to a nice temperature, helps Missy under the spray before stepping in himself.

"No nonsense," Missy says to him, and he grins. She smiles back and tips her head under the spray. "Be soft with me."

"I think you mean gentle."

"No, soft. Gentle implies pity, while soft means care."

The Doctor muses over this while he turns her around, lathers her hair up with lemon-scented shampoo. He massages her scalp, and Missy sighs, her shoulders dropping. She leans into him, thin and warm and her skin slick with water. Missy washes her body with the sea-salt soap he got her at a market, rinses her hair under the spray.

"And you," she says, and the Doctor indulges her, stooping, letting her reach up and fill his hair with lemony suds.

Conditioner, and Missy even lets him comb the knots out of her hair - it's easier when it's got the conditioner in it - before rinsing again.

"And me?" the Doctor asks.

"No, it's fluffier when you don't condition it," Missy says.

"Really?"

"Seriously. I like it fluffy."

"Okay."

Shower off, towels retrieved, and they dry themselves. Missy dries her hair while the Doctor goes through one of her clothing trunks to find his pair of pyjamas he hid there while Nardole wasn't looking. He doesn't mind wearing Missy's nightshirts, but they're tight around the shoulders. He finds his pyjamas bundled under one of Missy's underdresses, and puts them on.

"It's not like Nardole doesn't know," Missy says, stepping out from the bathroom, naked and fresh, her mostly-dry hair in a loose braid. "I mean, you haven't come out of the Vault."

"He seems to think there's a difference between me staying in here because you need me, and me _planning_ on staying in here."

"Is there?"

Missy crosses the room, gets her own nightshirt from under her pillow and puts it on.

"Sometimes I stay because I need to, sometimes I stay because you need me to. Sometimes I stay because I want to," says the Doctor. "Because you're my friend, and I care about you."

Missy pulls the blankets back, doesn't seem to react. "Could you put the windows onto night mode, please?"

He does, and crawls into bed beside her as the lights dim. Missy exhales, shifts beside him until she's pressed into his side. He strokes her clean hair back, traces the shell of her ear. 

"Goodnight," he murmurs.

It's dark and quiet, and he keeps stroking her hair.

"Would you ever want more kids?" Missy asks. "I don't."

"No, I - no. I couldn't do it again. Logistical nightmare aside, I don't think I could deal with a toddler Time Lord at my time of life."

Missy chuckles, and he feels her breath on his skin. "Yeah, we're both too set in our ways."

There's something left unsaid, hanging between them.

"I would have liked, more babies with you," Missy says evenly, into the darkness, and the Doctor's hearts skip a beat. "Just letting you know."

"I would have too," he murmurs, and squeezes her tightly. "Thank you for telling me."

"Mm."

"Goodnight, Missy."

"Night."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
